Sigil

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Music Room
Skills: Dexterity
Hit Points: 4
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It might be a mistruth to state that the Manor was a place of peace and quiet, yet what passed for both was broken utterly by the highly uncharacteristic scream originating from Dr. Swamp. "Compose yourself, Plum!" His voice carried upon the wind a disturbing quality, as if coming from one who had witnessed horrors in his lifetime that were edging their way out and into the light. The direction of the address seemed to change as the unsettling notes of his outcry seemed to reach out to anyone else who was available, "Get this man off of me! He's gone mad! STARK, RAVING MAD!" The cool and stoic exterior of the Doctor seemed penetrated by what was transpiring before him.

Dr. Swamp raised his stout walking stick before himself, wielding it as best he could against the enigmatic and colorful Master Plum. He was not a man who had demonstrated great physicality, especially considering the fact that his forward movement was assisted by the very tool he now held in combative grip; he brought it to bear readily, however. Or just readily enough, as the case might be, and with follow-through adequate to split his scalp to the bone. The man slumped to the ground, leaving Dr. Swamp standing above his erstwhile patient, clothes partially in disarray, breathing heavily at the suddenness of what just transpired. "Professor Walnut, you just witnessed that man attack me, yes?" he said, seemingly confirming for himself. He would have to check to see if the man yet lived.



GM Note: Plum takes 2 points of damage, is unconscious.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

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Location: La Canela Ship (Captain's Cabin)
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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The words of the good Captain brought a smile to Vladimir's face, genuine and warm. The concept of being in a contest of sharp and pointy implements, regardless of the stakes involved, sounded like just the kind of thing that would bring out the best and most flamboyant in the enigmatic performer known to mere mortals throughout the ages as "The Great Bazhooli". Just the thought of it got his blood moving in his limbs, almost aching for a moment of physical action. But this was not the place, time, nor person with which to engage in such a struggle. Friendly or hostile intentions notwithstanding, his little envoy of their alliance had a task to perform.

As Regalia rose and stoppered the bottle of wine, Vladimir rose as well. Her announcement that they were approaching the shore was both positive and depressing for the colorful man; it meant that they could continue upon their mission for Veta, Mary, and Virginia, and hopefully figure out where they place in the questionable nuptials that were going to transpire. However, this meant that his time with La Canela, and specifically with Captain Montoya, was coming to a close. He was really beginning to enjoy himself. Ever the optimist, Vladimir pushed forward, outwardly undaunted. "Spasibo, Captain. Thanking you for the hospitality of La Canela. Russian Imperial Circus and Bazhooli Sem'ya owe you a debt. But I am having qvestions; three of them - Is this meaning you are joining into Alliance vith us? And vhether yes or no, how vould ve find you again? Lastly, Captain... is there anything my peoples can do for yours?"

Vlad lowered himself into a gracious bow, motioning with his hand as if he were sweeping his hat from his head and tucking it underneath. He was, of course, without the necessary hat to make the motion more productive. It was the idea behind the action that was supposed to demonstrate, one of respect and treating another as a peer. Vladimir was commodore of his own fleet, as it were, except that his ships had oxen and horses to pull them, and wheels to ride upon. His ships scoured the land and thoroughfares of the Czar's Empire, and now the routes of Europe. When his fleet came to port, it was to encircle great cooking fires and host music, lights, and the protection of a people secretly trained to destroy the enemies of the living. "Ludvig talked ov your people as 'Circus of the Seas', if memory is correct. Is true, in your own vays. Your people vill have friends on the land, if you are needing us."

🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S.

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck -> 2nd -> Main Deck)
Skills: N/A

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There was no small amount of gratitude to the fates, or the stars, or the God which proper Anglicans gave weekly worship for the delivery of Vera from the grip of the Nile. The ancient river was notorious as both the giver and taker of life, possibly gifted with a deliberate intelligence of that which it claimed in exchange for single-handedly allowing civilization to exist in the middle of this otherwise unfathomable desert, aptly named "Sahara" by the locals. It almost seemed fair sometimes. But not on this evening, and not if the life claimed was the Lady Vera Munn. Such a thing simply would not do.

Being that Reginald was a man who had, admittedly, thickened and greyed with age, he was still able to move with enough urgency to cause for a sort of parting of persons in front of him. The fact that he was traveling down the stairs and not up them made the trip easier. Considering the haste with which he moved and tiny details such as his oft troublesome sword scabbard and moderate amount of alcohol that he had consumed prior to the emergency, the casual use of the word "trip" was perhaps one he would have avoided, were he to voice his own opinion of the situation. Nevertheless, he proceeded as solidly as his advancing years and state of drunkenness might allow, which again was rather impressive in a man who was obviously in the autumn years of his life.

His ticket in hand, Reginald sped down two flights of stairs in his quest for the Cargo Hold, certain that he would be remembered and that the booklet containing it was open to the right spot. No one seemed to challenge his movement, and so he continued ever onward. Such was the prerogative of the Lord Major.

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Haring Reddish

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck, Josephine's Stateroom)
Skills: N/A

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Within the stateroom of the irrepressible Josephine Clark, a highly unlikely companion for the young starlet set about attempting to pull his foot from his mouth, or so he assumed he must, for a lack of situational propriety. It was occasionally a curse of his people to simultaneously wish for abruptness and subtlety simultaneously, and then to apologize profusely when it could not be achieved. It was not indecisiveness nor cowardice on his part, quiet the opposite in fact. "Manners Maketh Man", or so the saying went, and the proper application of them at the right time showed just exactly the courage necessary to stay upon the path of an honorable man, regardless of the cost to himself socially.

But yes, mostly at the commentary concerning the modelling one of the starlet's items of nightwear by the young woman. It was a breach of gentlemanly etiquette, or something that strayed too close to it for Reddish's comfort. Far be it for he to be lumped into the gaggle of others who viewed Josephine purely by the roles she tended to play on the silver screen. He did not press the matter further than his assertion that, upon the lady's request, he would give her the gift of his absence as soon as the emergency was over and she was relatively safe. Until that time however, the stalwart Corporal made good use of the time provided, and hovered over the mark upon the floor with the intent to examine for any further detail that might shed some light on the invasion of the stateroom.

"Ah, Miss Clarke? Should you still wish to inform me, madame, have you any luck determining the identity of the absent mystery item?"

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar & Keystone

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Location: Chicago (Outside of Grimaldi Books)
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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While this new visitor to Grimaldi Books eyed Mr. Gonzalez, Keystone got an eyeful of her. This was a face that he had seen before, and for the first couple of seconds he couldn't place exactly from here. Much of this came from the astronomically unlikely possibility of seeing her by unweighted chance. Especially in Chicago, in front of this bookstore. But when his brain clicked in recognition, the big man went into full work mode. First, he was quiet. As soon as the mystery woman entered the building, he confided in his employer and local associate.

"Boss, Miss McManus? I know that country-fried tart. Well I ain't knowin' persay, but she was front and bloody center when that incident 'appened at the Justice location, y'see. I saw 'er check in at the front, an' then bugger else afters. All bodies accounted for with statements, an' she ain't one of 'em. She was there, sir. If this's full coincidence, then I've got the Crown Jewels for a dong-ring."

Caesar began this new chapter of epic fuckery debating whether to wonder, one way or another, if this woman giving him the eye was doing so because he stood out in Chicago as an outsider, if she thought he was cute in his own rugged, elder way, or if there was something sinister about it. He couldn't help but feel an odd sort of familiarity with the lady, like the half-faded memory of a dream that was done away with by the drama of waking life, only to be recalled after a specific trigger. Keystone's explanation did give him a sense of pragmatic anger, knowing full well how the incident at the Queensguard R&D facility back in California had done his company a massive disservice. He wasn't present for it as he was attending the funeral of his daughter. Keystone was. If this woman was involved, and according to his partner it was likely in the extreme, then they couldn't just walk away. Still, he could swear he knew this woman from somewhere, the details lost in the ethereal of his mind.

Then again, Caesar had his own brush with more solid familiarity. In the truck just in front, he spotted someone he knew. Or at least, who he'd seen around. Even heard her name once or twice. But like the other woman, it was highly improbable that she would be here. Not unless there was some level of involvement. Being as he tended to live in a haze of confusion and misplaced speculation these days, Caesar decided to take a more direct method of sating his curiosity. He was going to ask, like an actual person might. First though, he gave orders. "Claire, thank you for fixing this thing with Book Lady. Let me know what you can. If you find out anything about the woman, same. Keystone, hang outside here. Car information, general descriptions. If Claire can get you back inside, good. Partner with her until I'm back. Need to be neighborly."

Keystone wasn't fully sure what he meant by that last statement, but responded with his typical, "On it, Boss."

It was a short saunter over to the Silverado. "Mali, right?" He was trying to sound friendly, though it wasn't his strong suit. "Caesar Gonzalez. I live in Boston Heights - we're neighbors. Have you had lunch yet? Probably gruffer than he intended. Making friends wasn't in his goodie bag of interpersonal skills in any official capacity. But he was loaded, and that helped. "If you or your friend know a place near here, I'm buying." It might be a good thing he declined the metric ton of Chinese from earlier.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: The Bus -> Quarantine (Showers)
Skills: N/A

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Ash gave Beatrice the human equivalent of a confused dog's facial expression. While not a man of exceedingly few words, perhaps he hadn't used enough to fully articulate his meaning. It happened. Probably a curse birthed of his background with the Army, where everyone pretty much knew what was intended, the few words used merely confirmation of what was expected. Alternately, Beatrice wanted nothing to do with him while they were in quarantine. For that matter, maybe he didn't understand the exchange. Best to broach the subject in brief as soon as they had some "settling in" time before jumping to conclusions.

His thought process to that matter was stymied by the Chaplain handing him back his tags. And Thana's. "Thank you." he responded, carefully taking the small, steel identification plates. They were courteous enough to return Thana's as well, bringing a series of questions to the forefront of his brain. Was she there, and they were giving him the opportunity to personally fulfill his promise? Was she not there at that time, and they wanted him to hang onto them until she returned? Or did they know something that he didn't - something gearing to the absolutely negative, for which he had been bracing himself all this time? Again, wait for more information before conclusions. He was here to make sure that the former Newnan residents had a home. Safety. Food. Purpose aside from bare survival. Everything else was secondary.

He heard the instructions of their hosts and felt honorbound to oblige. The assault weapons on standby were, at least in theory, an excellent motivator. It wasn't as if he was going to suddenly launch himself at the nearest person with a rifle with the intent of snatching it away and stepping on the guy's neck before putting a bullet between his eyes, clearing the way for him to partially empty the clip into the local authority, thusly giving him unrestricted access to the shower area and all of their nifty soaps. Oh, and disposable razors. Those were important. But he was being silly to entertain those thoughts.

Stepping into line with the rest of the survivors from the bus, his people and the others, he looked to the hazel-eyed girl with one abbreviated arm and noted that she looked in his direction as well. They shared a nod. Apparently she wished to speak to him as well. Or he was misreading something again.

The trip to the locker room gave him some perspective of the size of Camp Mexico Beach. From the outside it looked huge. From the inside, too. Such size gave him a moment of consideration. Was three hundred enough to secure such an area? Did they have any problems with other people? Hostile, less organized communities that wanted what they had? More and more questions for later. Right now, the lure of hot water and soap was absolutely drawing. Ash took to the shower with gratitude that he kept inside. Ever the situational poker player. He was fast and thorough washing himself, tipping his hand yet again to a background in the Service. Hot water was a commodity, and as massively thankful as he was to have it, he wasn't going to stand in it and let it cascade about himself because of the sheer pleasure of being able to do so, regardless of how much he wanted to.

Likewise, the shave he gave himself was fast and thorough. A safety razor, rather than a scavenged blade honed on the edge of a pane of vehicle glass, was damn near a novelty. It even took him a second to remember the proper way to hold it again. After he was done, he looked to a mirror and proclaimed in distant voice, "I remember you." For a moment or two, he half-expected a response from somewhere in the back of his mind. All he got was a mildly exteriorized sense of acceptance.

Clothes in bag (minus dog tags), hospital gown and slippers replacing them. It was an interesting look, one that he probably would have fit into nicely back when he was borderline suicidal and heard voices inspired of grief. Another look to a mirror prompted a mumble of, "Add a black tie, this makes a passable Nuthouse Formal." in his mild Virginian accent. He pulled a robe on, then looked to Wayne and Hank. They looked a little too comfortable in their new clothes. Ash was also vaguely aware that he had new people to meet and figure out. "Any military in here?" he asked to the room. Might as well start somewhere.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: The Bus -> Quarantine (Showers)
Skills: N/A

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The preacher surprised Thalia. From the sound of it, that Atticus guy knew something. She sure as hell didn't want to wait for the unknown and unknowable time of "later" to talk to someone who might know about her father. Ever since this goddamned Apocalypse started, all she wanted to do was reunite with her family. It had been a fruitless pursuit for over five years now. It might not have have been, if she hadn't been too late finding Newnan. She had an uncle and a cousin who had called that place home. Both were dead now. The remaining options to her involved San Antonio or the family compound in Monterrey, Mexico. Though it would be a shame to travel all that way, risking life and limb (another one, anyway) for absolutely nothing. But she couldn't even try for it now.

Thalia was physically compromised. Weaker than she had been a year ago. She needed this place in a way that was similar to how she needed the help of the Shieldmaidens back in Fairburn. She was weak then, too. Malnourished, unable to survive for any stretch of time in the wilderness. Now that most of the world (including the cities) were essentially wilderness, her former life as an urbanite was a massive hindrance. She was so utterly different in that regard anymore. More comfortable up a tree or in front of a fire than in an air conditioned house. Better with the dark than florescent lighting. Yet, she needed this point of civilization to take a pause from the rigors of just surviving. Thalia had to adapt to her new reality, again. She had to become stronger.

Her mind switched back to the present. There was someone else who knew about her family on this bus; the man who reminded her of Thana. He was the guy in charge of the settlement that some of these people came from. Also, Thalia caught him looking over in her direction a few times. Maybe he needed to say something. She risked a look in his direction, only to see that he was doing the same. He nodded, she nodded back. Okay, he did want to talk. She thought, anyway. Or he was just a creeper with an amputee fetish.

Fine. Later. Whenever this mystical "later" occurred, she was going to have that talk. And the one with that Army Captain. Oh, there would be talks aplenty, but first, that shower seemed like a good way to pass the time. She stripped down, mostly without the modesty that used to accompany taking her clothes off around people. She had gotten used to doing it one-handed by now, and almost had the whole balance thing down pat, too. But so much more was required before she was back to her best.

For those who hadn't seen what lay underneath her clothing of convenience (because the stuff she was wearing was not her preferred style by a long shot), one might be surprised to see the amount of physical scarring packed onto her body. It looked like she had been painted upon by an abstract artist going through a "knife fight phase" in places, what hadn't been marked by the difficulties of living away from people during an undead uprising. There were marks birthed of gunfire as well; a couple of grazes, one in her side, and another, older one in her chest. And the hand missing from the midpoint of her forearm, down. Her life had not been gentle thusfar. Again, a wave of self-consciousness took her. It quickly evaporated when she smiled at Beatrice, "Yeah, take it off, Killa Bea!" Her expression quickly turned to the serious, even empathetic, when she glanced in the direction of Tatiana. That girl had some scars. And she didn't get them the same way that Thalia did, from the looks of it. She wasn't ready to get all buddy-buddy with the new people yet, but something in her wanted to hug the woman. Preferably after they were all fully dressed again. Still, the lady with the Russian accent looked like she could use a friend. But first, shower!

What Thalia hadn't considered was that she wasn't accustomed to hot water anymore. The big shock of her day (aside from the helicopter) was the jolt to her system that happened when heated water nailed her skin. Her first instinct was to turn the heat way down. She really had been outside for too long. Like a cat preferred the alley to a heated apartment. One thing she didn't have a problem with in the least was the application of a razor. "Geez, I'm a friggin' sasquatch ovah here... Ey Bea, gaht any shaving gel?" The Boston was strong with her just then.

Clothes bagged, and burned for all she cared, hair shampooed for the first time in ages, and a fluffy robe to cover her ass. She couldn't help but feel a little silly when she noticed the sleeve of the robe flapping about, covering the stump of her right forearm. It even brought a little chuckle out of her. Laugh, shower, and shave aside, Thalia was not exactly trusting nor comfortable right then. She found a spot on the wall and leaned against it, waiting for what was going to happen next.

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Hank Wright

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Location: The Bus -> Quarantine (Showers)
Skills: N/A

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"Wait, what the hell is 'LazyTown'?" He considered it for a second, "Yeah, don't worry about it. This is something I have got to get ahold of. I know someone who is going to just absolutely love this. Really. Whole lot." The faux innocent look on his face was punctuated by his eyes moving in Nigel's direction.

In contrast to his usual grumpy demeanor, Hank was seriously okay with what was going on. He was a man of creature comfort and simple tastes, and the basest of these had been stripped from him for a long time. He would take what he could get when he could get it. Usually it was something along the lines of a bag of pork rinds here, a warm and flat beer there, possibly the joy of finding a few functional shotgun shells. Days where he found all three made him as satisfied as a kid on Christmas. Those were few and far between. The idea of a shower, seafood, and clothing that he hadn't slept in (for a month or two) was almost too much. Hell, these people might mistake him for a cheerful guy if this kept up. They'd figure it out one way or another in time, provided that they were allowed to stay. That was, both of them. Hank wasn't going to have a piece of a normalish life if Wayne was left out of it. Friends didn't abandon each other like that. Especially not after going through what they had for the last few years. Even before dead assholes started eating live ones.

The plan was simple: He wanted to sit down someplace comfortable and be generally left alone, aside from the occasional manly thing stated so that he might grunt in agreement. If a beer was involved, great. Before that was going to happen, there was some food to get through, and by "get through", he meant attack with wild abandon. It wasn't a steak, but who the hell cared? Maybe his visions of a crab boil would pay off. Yay food. But before even that, there was a shower. This might be a hurdle between he and his dream of sitting the hell down, but it was one he was very happy to jump.

To see him clean himself up, you might think that Hank was attempting to fully sand the top few layers of his skin off. At one point toward the end of his vigorous scrubbing session, the soap popped out of his hands and landed a couple of feet away. He looked at the bar laying on the tile, to the people around him, and back to the soap. "Nope! No sir, I've seen this movie. I'm not that pretty, but I don't know how long some of you have been out in the sticks. Yeah..." He looked suspiciously at the other naked people in the room, and stepped on the soap. Clenching it with his toes, Hank slid it across the floor until it found the wall, then made the less steady move up the wall. When he was about ready to lose his balance and break something internal, his hand whipped downward and snatched it back up. "Not the type to judge anyone's lifestyle." He shrugged, and made a quick retraction, "Okay, I am, but I need a little romancing first. And a lot of booze. LOT." Effecting a subject change, "Where's that razor again?"

A clean shave was not his preference. He was a sideburns and 'stache kind of guy. Not a foray into manscaping, mind you, but he was set in his ways as the option was given to him. It took a little longer to pull off than the others who were ridding themselves of all excess facial hair. He didn't care. This was his own personal ritual of hygiene and grooming, and damnit, he was going to do it his way. Afterward, he looked himself over. Not bad for a man in his 50s. Not great, but not bad. The get-up he had to wear was really damned familiar, too... a little too familiar. He got a smile out of the younger man's comment about "Nuthouse Formal", though he wasn't about to let on how close the guy was to the truth.

Wayne did that for him.

"Yeah there, Maldonado. Deja fucking vu. Those were some good times, huh?" The sarcasm was palpable. "Got your reference there, but isn't it a little early in the day for Charlotte's Web? I would have gone for a Jonathan Swift work instead... Eh, each their own." Looking to their hosts, Hank gave an offhand inquiry. "Hey! Any chance you figured out cable TV? I'd fork over a big, shiny nickel for some History Channel action."

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers

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Location: Ville au Camp (Carnival Setup)
Skills: N/A

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Gilbert would be a liar if he said that the mention of the name Keystone did not immediately pique his attention. He tried not to let it show on his face, but it very well may have if the person watching was even moderately adept at reading people. Figuring that it was too late to hide his momentary surprise, he addressed the situation directly. "That is extraordinary." And indeed it was. Add to this the fact that the surname Keystone wasn't exactly a highly common one, so Good Guess wasn't appropriate. As far as he could tell, there were three likely explanations.

One: this Ruthie was being fed information. Management seemed appropriate, considering she had already sent someone to locate Peter's grave. A ploy to further that agenda.

Two: she had received information from another source, be it on the ground espionage or simply listening to the conversations of others. A substantial bluff or cold read, in and of itself a thing of art if handled correctly.

Three, Ruthie was actually speaking to the disembodied spirit of one of their fallen Paradoxes. A test, quick and dirty, might be in order. "It is forgiven. He might consider it recompense for the three teeth I knocked from his mouth during our initial training day." The truth of it was that he did not. Like every other Paradox, Gilbert started his training by handing him a knife, giving him a speech, and taking him to a militant point in human history where a lesson appropriate to his disposition could be learned. If this was a legitimate power she was demonstrating, then by all means Peter deserved peace. He certainly paid enough for it.

It was at this moment that Gilbert felt a familiar pulling in the direction of the last activated portal in Ville au Camp. It diverted a hair of his attention, if only for a second. He knew that feeling. The Hat was no longer the only Emendator on premises. He looked to Andromeda, "The Watch has returned. With him anchoring, perhaps we can take a more active role in your theory about Miss Lucas."

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (Carnival Setup)
Skills: Animal Empathy

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James should have been expecting something along those lines to come from the grunt workers of the time period. He should have expected it from the people in charge, considering the general opinions of the era and the fact that they had very little to keep them in check. Full civil rights were decades away and people had to die for them to be applied. Even then... Well, it was disheartening. He had a flash of primal anger at the man; an understandable reaction that he quickly brought under control. He then heard the words of his friend, Sophia, and felt her hand upon his shoulder. Not everyone in the world was a jackass. There was still hope for mankind yet.

He sighed anyway, feeling dejection at the whole scenario. He just wanted to help these men, maybe learn something about their carnival while he was at it. Far be it for him to let one bigot ruin his day, James put on a more or less positive voice and made the most of the occasion. "Naw, s'aight. Gots us a educated man, here. That there's the dying utterance of the great Chinese philosopher, Ig-nit Foo!" He nodded his head, "Yes'm, sure is. Y'all wanna know how he passed?" A quick glance around found a scurry of brown squirrels clustered around a dropped bag of peanuts at a nearby tent. "I bet they know. Imma ask 'em."

The odd antics of the boisterous blackneck seemed to become more confusing as he stepped in the direction of the treebound rodents and began speaking to them. "Well, how-do there, General Fuzzy! Y'all guys hear what that Racist Asshat been sayin? Ain't pretty, lemme tell ya. Thought y'all oughta know."

One of the squirrel's dropped his nut and took a few steps over towards James, coming up onto his hind legs. "Squeak squeak, squeaker squeakery squeakers," he said towards James.

"Well, he been talkin' some powerful unfriendly stuff in my direction, that's f'sho. But then there was somethin' about us keepin' (and I'm quotin' here) 'them muthafuckin' tree rats' away from his business, mmm hmm."

The squirrel craned his neck a bit to look passed James before looking back up at him. "Squeak? Squeakers squeak squeaken."

James bent down a little to better speak with the furry woodland creature. With a lowered voice, he confessed, "I don't like the way he been talkin', and I really wanna give him a scare. You in?"

Tilting his head to the side, the squirrel considered what was being asked of him. "Squeak," he said before turning and running back to his group that was still munching down on some peanuts. Seemed they had a bit of a quiet conversation before he came back over to James. "Squeakers squeak squeaky squeakery."

It could be said that there have been less productive conversations between a man and a scurry of squirrels. When the one that he had affectionately referred to as "General Fuzzy" returned, James held out his hand. A quaint human custom, accompanied by the utterance of the word, "Deal." He nodded, adding, "Meet me out back of the Kitchen House after, 'k? Gotcha covered."

"Squeak, squeakers."

"Yeah, aight..." A thoughtful look passed over James. As much fun as it would be to engage this person in preternatural one-up-man-ship, it wasn't really going to solve anything. It would be funny, but it wouldn't solve a thing. Speaking again to the squirrels, he decided, "Know what, changed my mind. Imma make good on them Oreos, though. Say y'all owe me a favor, 'k? Follow me." He began to stroll back the way he came. To Sophia, he gave a quick, "If'n they don't want my help, they can lug them parts they damn selves. Me an' the gang got some shit to do anyhow."

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

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Location: Shadowell Manor: Music Room
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 4
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The room was beginning to clear out, and it couldn't be fast enough in the Doctor's opinion. It was quite possible that impatience had hold of the man, at least a little. It was extremely fair to say that he would rather be elsewhere, though a sense of professional duty might explain his presence when called upon. Dr. Swamp gave a look to his newfound medical assistant, temporary though the relationship was, and gave her a nod. "Professor Walnut, if you would please be as kind, would you ensure that we will not be disturbed? The last thing we need are interruptions, most especially if violence is intended by the guests herein."

With a sigh, he turned to Master Plum, "These masks make a simple examination such a dramatic affair..." he mumbled. A little more directly, he addressed his patient. "I am sorry, sir. Truly. My mind has been elsewhere. You have my rapt and undivided attention now, sir. I shall be quick but I shall be thorough, especially as this place and these people seem intent on..." he waved his hand around in a circle, attempting to pin down the proper word to express his intent. Swamp's eyes lit up as it finally came to him; he pointed a finger into the air and finished with, "...nefariousness." He gave a satisfied nod, causing the beak of his mask to move vertically in a bobbing manner. "If you would please stand, as best you can. I wish to test your ocular response. It is the best way to determine in advance if certain detrimental agents were introduced into the wound. Please sir?" Swamp lifted his cane so that the knob was about level with his eyes, and placed his other hand on his lapel brooch. "Stare at the knob of my walking stick for a moment. As I count three, change your focus to my flower. Count of three, cane; count of three, flower. Ready?"

"One. Two. Three."

GM Note: Need roll from Plum before next post is begun.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

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Location: La Canela Ship (Captain's Cabin)
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English, Chteniye Dushi

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The Great Bazhooli leaned forward to grasp the goblet upon the desk before him. He listened intently as Captain Montoya began to speak, fully intrigued by the story that she wove, brief though it was. It did not have to be a long speech to get the important points across, however. Details seemed to melt away as one solid, immutable point was expressed, and it was significant. Very, very significant. Such an assertion was reckless in front of a total stranger (and with the exception of the studious Mr. Zimmer, Vladimir was the strangest person he himself knew), especially one who was armed and had demonstrated considerable physical capability. Then again, he had also demonstrated a propensity for slamming his face into things, so it could be argued that the Captain felt as safe as she could be. In fairness, the fact that her hand moved toward a weapon did seem to indicate otherwise.

The wine goblet hovered near the experienced Russian's lips. A tiny thought that this might be especially bad for his health, situation being what it was, crossed his mind. After a tiny pause, he took that sip anyway. One glass was already down. If this woman had wanted to poison or drug him, she already had plenty of opportunity. The wine was safe, he surmised. His single sip deepened into a hearty gulp, after which Vlad set the goblet back down upon the desk again. After that story, there was something he needed to see for himself.

Vladimir gave the Captain a small, comforting smile and crossed his arms in front of him. Such an action could be taken as a non-threatening gesture, but in truth it surreptitiously brought him within quick grasp of several of his beloved knives. He leaned forward, letting his eyes lock with hers, and opened himself to the Trained skill of the Chteniye Dushi. To anyone observing him, it only looked like he was holding her gaze. But to Vlad's perception, he was peering deeply into the ethereal qualities of what made her, her. After but a moment of this, The Great Bazhooli exhaled a soft breath and sat back in his chair. "Let us be plain, please." His grasp on the English language seemed much improved from the last time he used it, just before their conversation took a more serious note. Vladimir's voice was solid but soft, even reassuring. "Я изучил истинную твою сущность, Регалии. Это навык, которым мои люди овладели веками и прошлыми поколениями. Нельзя читать Душу, которой там нет. Вы, Капитан, чисты и честны, как любой мужчина или женщина, которых я встречал. Я ставлю свою жизнь на это."

"HA!" Vladimir laughed, breaking the tension as he snatched up his goblet, "Now, ve may celebrate. Vill make vith particulars... later."

Translations

YA izuchil istinnuyu tvoyu sushchnost', Regalii. Eto navyk, kotorym moi lyudi ovladeli vekami i proshlymi pokoleniyami. Nel'zya chitat' Dushu, kotoroy tam net. Vy, Kapitan, chisty i chestny, kak lyuboy muzhchina ili zhenshchina, kotorykh ya vstrechal. YA stavlyu svoyu zhizn' na eto.

🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S.

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Sun Deck -> Elite Deck)
Skills: N/A

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The shock of the second in the most recent of misadventures to befall Vera was still fresh on Reginald, try as he might to maintain his proper and dignified sense of British stiff-upper-lippedness. The older man figured that it wasn't anything that couldn't be cured by a warming beverage and bit of quiet, though that would hardly be of any use to Vera at this juncture. It was not until he heard a call from below, in the distinct voice of Mr. George Benaszewski, that he allowed himself the luxury of not bracing himself for the worst of news. No amount of warming drinks nor quiet would have been of comfort then. She was the reason they had a mission in the first place, the reason why he hauled himself from his office for one last adventure. For that matter, Vera was one of the last, few reasons that Reginald bothered with drawing oxygen into his lungs at all.

Gene's insistence that they go to the Cargo deck to check on Vera, while notably absent of sociable effort, was a capital idea. Whatever argumentative nature he had earlier, however gentlemanly he might have been planning to phrase it, had been tucked away for now. Petty squabbles were supposed to be beneath him, anyway. And the American lady did have a good idea. With these points in mind, Reginald responded to Gene with an affirming, "Yes, yes of course." and began toward the shorter staircase leading from the Sun Deck down to Elite.

It was a simple showing of papers, though it did surprise him a little that they would ask for papers going down. Tight ship, he suspected, as a Captain must keep to protocol regardless of little idiosyncrasies. Leaves no room for error among the guests nor subordinates. One deck down, a few more to go, as the Lord Major had nearly the entire ship to traverse before locating Vera.

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Haring Reddish

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Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck, Josephine's Stateroom)
Skills: N/A

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Indeed, to the average fellow, it looked like the room had been untouched. But interestingly enough, Corporal Haring Demetrius Reddish was never, and I mean never in his life been referred to as average. Not to the point that he somehow instinctively knew what might or might not have been taken by whomever was visiting uninvited while they were away, but enough to note that someone had indeed been in there. The door was also a pretty obvious clue. First things first, however: Take stock of the room's contents itself.

Reddish began to quietly scan the room, soaking up detail and listening to Josephine provide her own accounting of things being amiss. Eyes narrowed, a mental inventory being taken of what was in the room that did not show up on individual manifests; personal items, sundries, and the like. In the case of Josephine, it was finery in the form of clothing and jewelry. The theory being, if Reddish intimately acquainted himself with the style and quality of her belongings, it might stand to reason that, if similar was spied elsewhere on the ship, he might consider that a point to investigate later. Naturally, he had to take a look for himself. But first, he holstered his sidearm.

It was like he was a different sort of man for that moment, quickly and efficiently ticking through personal effects. His voice, casual and confident, hummed to Josephine as he went about work rare to a field Corporal. "Heavens no, Madame. A lady's pearls are sacred. Particularly pearls such as yours. I say we locate the culprit and ensure his hasty incarceration in the Cairo Prison. There are many a reprobate there who might pursue hasty pelvic entertainment involving the chap's eyesockets." A dry laugh later, and the Corporal found himself thumbing through the various silks and cottons and satins, velvet, fur, or what have you that made up the whole of Josephine's wardrobe. "Tasteful, Miss Clarke. Very. If you would will pardon my familiarity with your belongings, it is my belief that if your pearls were moved but not taken, then the culprit was looking for something highly specific, and likely rummaged through everything else of your in the process. One never knows where an identifier might have been left."

Satisfied that he had learned what he could at that time from Josephine's garments and jewelry, he instead focused his attention to details of he room itself. Nonetheless, commentary such as "Ah madame, that silk number with the keyhole neckline would look absolutely smashing on you. Of course, you would know that, being as you bought it and whatnot, but that is a lovely garment, if you don't mind my saying, Miss Clarke. Just lovely." Okay, that sounded a bit more like the Corporal. "But begging madame's pardon, if I may risk sounding like less the gentleman for it? That after-hours clingy nightshift is absolutely marvelous. Really, I'd bloody applaud, I would, if this situation wasn't so serious. It would be an absolute thrill of a lifetime to be lucky enough to catch a passing glimpse of yourself in it." His eyes widened, seemingly at the open frankness of his dialogue. "My sincerest, Miss Clarke. I go beyond the boundaries of comfortable conversation at this late hour, and it is doubly inappropriate considering my presence in your stateroom, as it were. Very apologetic, Miss. Crosses a line. Upon the termination of the emergency, I shall be forlorn (but accepting) if you require my absence, quite." He sighed and nodded, resolving to accept this eventuality with dignity and grace if it was pressed.

Oh! But watch that step, Miss Clarke! Unless I miss my guess, there's a mark upon the floor that was left by whomever blundered in here uninvited, madame." Sure enough, a rather largeish scuff mark was left upon the floor that practically begged to be examined further, altogether to large to have come from a bootheel.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: The Bus
Skills: N/A

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These people certainly seemed organized. The welcoming committee seemed to be equal parts showy and easygoing, probably designed to keep people calm while herding them all in the same direction. Being out in the greater world as he and the rest of them had been, Ash was still a little suspicious. He was supposed to meet someone here, but more and more he began to question that. The one detail that put him on the right track for trust came when the priest asked everyone for names. If something immediately nefarious was going to happen to them, he doubted that the offending parties were going to bother getting too acquainted and then sorting their clothing by whose corpse used to own it.

The moment that they pulled into the settlement proper, Ash felt a pang of emotional pain for his lost home, Newnan. They made that city into something great. Truly great, in a world full of ugliness. These people look to have done the same, except it was less of a make and more of a preserve. To the casual glance, anyway. There was no telling what these people might have engineered in the past five years. A few bright minds and maybe three dozen hard workers turned Newnan into a highly livable place in a lot less time. Mexico Beach? They had numbers and time. If they had the right people with the right education, there was so much that was possible. Of course, this begged the question: Were most of these people behind the walls for all this time, or did they have to fight everyday just to survive?

Regardless, the relative opulence of the town was duly impressive. Ash just couldn't show it on his face right then. It wasn't hard, he was already bracing himself for hard news about Thana. At word of a shower, his resolve almost broke. It wasn't like he didn't try to keep clean out in the world, but hasty cleanups in natural water sources on the extreme quick while someone else stood watch over you just wasn't the same as standing in a tub and letting heated, steamy bliss rain down upon you. But Ash held firm.

When Atticus announced his profession, the Captain instinctively repeated, "Chaplain..." It didn't occur to him that the settlement might cater to the religious, but that was silly. The military has employed Chaplains for as long as there was a military, and they specifically handled these little formalities. It made sense, so long as you stopped thinking like a desperate survivor and started thinking like a community administrator. It was something he used to be, not too long ago, among other things.

As the black-garbed man of God came upon him, Ash straightened and looked him dead in the eye. Habit, as well as a need to establish that he was fully cooperative to both this man and his own people motivated this, though he was no pushover. "Holloway, Ashton." He stopped himself before going into rank and MOS. The Ops Officer already got that, and they had his tags anyway. "If you're good at 'Methodist in Crisis', sir, I might pay a visit later." His tone was flat, but Ash still managed to project a hint of sarcasm. Acquiring his bag, Ash concluded with a succinct, "Thank you, Chaplain." He was cooperating. But he still wanted some quiet time with the rest of his group, regardless.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: The Bus
Skills: N/A

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A priest. A Catholic Priest in the middle of the Apocalypse. That was interesting. There even ran a not-unheard-of chance that he knew, or at least knew of, her father. He was likewise ordained in the Church. It was an understandable rarity for a priest to have a daughter (okay, to have a daughter and still be a priest), but here she was. It very well might have gotten around in ecclesiastical circles. Thalia gave hard debate in the back of her mind as to whether she should mention something right to the man about it when he came up to her with that bag of bags.

When the gate parted and they rolled into the town proper, Thalia took in a breath. This place was beautiful. Well planned. And the people seemed to be going about their lives like they didn't have to worry things like killing their next meal quietly or lighting a fire in a hole so they didn't draw the attention of Zeds. Or random assholes. On the other hand, three hundred people? She used to pass that many people walking halfway to her favorite bakery, just up from her old office in Boston. Before the Outbreak, of course. More recent years had made Thalia wary of crowds. Anymore, lots of people all in one spot tended to make her nervous. Time and circumstance undeniably changed her.

Mention of fabrication facilities and the acquisition of new, serviceable limbs for herself and Mugsy did give her a feeling of anxious hope. Thalia looked to Alexander and gave him an encouraging nod. They could both use something more sturdy and permanent to replace their missing limbs. She had an idea of what she would need, too. Nothing amazingly elaborate, just a prosthetic that withstood shock well and would allow her to effectively grip her shield or maybe a katar. Hell, a steel gauntlet with a bayonet fitting might suffice. Even look badassed. Thalia let her mind wander with possibilities until the priest came up to her in turn. She gave him a second of quiet study, looking to see if maybe she had seen the guy in any of her or her family's old stomping grounds.

Lacking the memory one way or the other, Thalia decided that there was really no harm in asking, after the task at hand. "Thalia. Um, Thalia Carmichael. Mi Familia always called me 'Angel', though. Did you know a Father Benicio Gonzalez?" Regardless of outcome, Thalia was more than happy to take the bag, though it meant uncovering her partially missing arm. She was still a little self-conscious about it.

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Hank Wright

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Location: The Bus
Skills: N/A

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Throughout all of this, the big reveal of the settlement and the news of a shower (okay, that was an awesome thing to look forward to), not to mention a solid meal, the thing that got his attention more than anything else was the fact that Wayne actually said, and out loud, that this place was his 'Hotel California'. But first things first: "Nope. Nope to the nopenope there, Wayne. I'm seeing it, too." That statement could be taken with a grain of salt, seeing as he did have a history of seeing things that weren't there. Nothing this grand in scope, and nothing since the very start of the end of the world, so he was pretty reliable that way. And of course, Hank tended to be significantly more stable than his counterpart, so he was a good first choice at a second opinion on the reality of a situation in front of them.

The mention of the song, "Hotel California", gave Hank a chuckle. One popular interpretation of the old Eagles song put it as an analogy for a State Mental Hospital in SoCal, a point which he jumped on. "You know, that would be damn poetic. No really, it makes sense - seeing as we started this bullshit out in an asylum, it'd be fitting to retire in one now. Good call, man."

Hank was very forthcoming when Atticus asked his name. "Hank Wright. That's Wright with a 'W', yeah that's the one..." He leaned forward, presumably to make sure that the man was spelling his last name correctly. Instead, he motioned downward with his head twice, and lowered the volume of his voice significantly. He spoke clearly but quietly, necessity being that he made his point with haste. _{"You see that guy over there? No, there, with the... that guy."} Hank made small movements with his hand, pointing out the person specific to his intent. _{"His name is Nigel, but I will owe you a small favor if you pencil him in there as Sportacus. No, really. That's Sport, followed by a-c-u-s. Sportacus. You're a pal there, Man In Black. Won't forget this."} Hank received his bag, after which he clered his throat loudly and finished off with, "Ah, yes sir! I in fact am a Johnny Cash fan, too. We'll talk later!"

He gave the man a thumbs-up while clicking his tongue twice, then settled back in his seat fully. "Yeah Wayne, I might just like it here."